


And the Christmas Pudding

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: The usual Christmas binge goes horribly awry, and Jeeves ends up in the soup.





	And the Christmas Pudding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quasar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/gifts).



> Shout-out to [Yeats](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/) and [Digs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/digs/) who listened to me yell about this for ages.

The soggy morning of December the twenty-second found me in bed, sipping my second or third cup of the life-giving and thinking about what fruity items I might sneak into my suitcase for my Christmas visit to Brinkley Court, when Jeeves floated in. He stuck his head into the wardrobe and tarried there a mo’. Then, he coughed.

“Yes, Jeeves?”

“Sir,” he said, sounding stiffer and froggier than I like to hear the fellow sounding, “Mr. Fink-Nottle is in the sitting-room.”

I goggled at Jeeves. As all and sundry know, I do not convene the assizes before breakfasting, and this I had not yet done. “Well, tell him to come back later.”

“I have done so, sir, repeatedly,” Jeeves said, sounding pained. “He is not to be moved.”

“Good lord!” I drained my cup. “Well, send him in, I suppose.”

And, in due time, Gussie was shown in by a peeved-looking Jeeves (well, there was a slightly furrow in his brow, which for Jeeves is positively expressive), who glided out with the air of a valet who was, for lack of a better word, peeved. Gussie settled himself at the end of my bed, fidgeting and wringing his hands. “I couldn’t get a glass of orange juice, could I?”

“No, you very well can’t, young Fink-Nottle,” I said. “What do you mean by barging into the Wooster GHQ like this at scarcely ten in the ack emma?”

He licked his lips as if in preparation for the recital of a veritable odyssey. “It’s Madeline,” he said, and with this, I cut him off with a heart-stopping groan.

“No, Gussie. No. I must ask you to leave.”

“What! But I’ve not even told you what’s happened.”

“I don’t care. I won’t help. I can’t help. I am going to Brinkley tomorrow for a quiet rest in the country and a good helping of Anatole’s best, so you will have to take your problems somewhere else.”

“But that’s just the trouble,” Gussie said. “Madeline is going to Brinkley Court for Christmas.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

I stared at him in horror. “And you’re going too?”

He cringed. “She insists.”

I gasped. “But doesn’t she remember what happened last time you were at Brinkley Court together?”

Gussie looked at me glumly and nodded. “I told her that I didn’t ever want to show my face there again, and she told me that— that she would break off the engagement if I didn’t.”

I sucked in a sharp intake of breath. And you mustn’t wonder that I did, for this previous visit of Gussie’s to Brinkley Court was a stinker. Why, the mere mention of it brings peals of laughter to Aunt Dahlia’s lips. It was that well-known case of the aching hearts and Angela’s shark and the Market Snodsbury Grammar School prize-giving and heaps more trouble, but the nub, the gist, of the whole rannygazoo was that Gussie made rather a priceless ass of himself and none of those present will ever let him forget it. What la Bassett was thinking in bringing Gussie back to the site of that frightful binge I could not imagine.

“What she’s thinking in bringing you back to the site of that frightful binge I cannot imagine,” I said to Gussie.

“Your aunt invited her,” Gussie said, glummer than ever, “and she’s not about to turn down a week of Anatole’s cooking on my account.”

“Have you considered feigning illness? Or staging a dramatic yet non-life-threatening accident that will see you laid up for a week?”

“Bertie, I was wondering— I was hoping—” He had begun plucking at my pajama sleeve, which is always the lead-up to a truly stunning entreaty.

“Spit it out, old thing,” I said, patting his arm.

“You wouldn’t consider getting engaged as a distraction, would you?” he said all in a rush.

I drew myself up, which was no mean feat, since I was sitting in bed and clutching a cup of tea and was scarcely awake to begin with. “No, Gussie. No. I hate to dash the cup of joy from your lips, but I will not do this thing for you. I’m sorry.”

He looked at me with the large, bedewed eyes of, well, perhaps one of his newts. “But, Bertie, weren’t we at school together?”

“I’ll have no but-Bertieing from you, my good Gussie. I won’t do it.”

“Bertie—”

“No!”

And we went on in that vein for some time. Eventually, I convinced the blighter that I would consider a spontaneous engagement, but more importantly, that I would certainly do my best to avoid bringing up the painful subj. of the prize-giving once we were both ensconced at the Travers manse as it were. By the time lunch rolled around, I’d kicked him out, tickled the ivories, convinced Jeeves to make me an early whisky and soda, and was sipping the same while lurking in the kitchen.

“Engaged, Jeeves! He wanted me to get engaged. Of all the bally cheek. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” Sip. “Why, next he’ll be doing as la Wickham does and putting the announcement in the paper without so much as a by-your-leave!”

Jeeves glanced at me over his shoulder. “Sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves?”

“I hesitate to mention the potentiality in advance of its actual occurrence, but what, if I may take the liberty, is your current intention should the prospect of matrimony once again be raised by Mrs. Travers?”

“Eh, what?” I said. “Do you mean, what am I going to do if Aunt Dahlia springs some blasted beazel on me?”

“Yes, sir.”

I paused for thought. I sipped the needful and bubbly. “Hm. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think it’s likely?”

“I hesitate to say, sir.”

“As do I, Jeeves. It bedews the brow, what?”

Jeeves did not answer. He merely hmed in response and continued slicing something cold and savory for the young master’s midday repast.

“Jeeves,” I said, suddenly sly.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you worried?”

“It would hardly be my place, sir.”

“Jeeves,” I said, and touched his hand. He looked up with that rummy glint in his eye that he gets when he thinks I’m being a bally fool. “You think I’m being a bally fool.”

“No, sir.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That would be a liberty.”

I knocked back the rest of my drink and took myself out of Jeeves’s domain and back to the piano. I started to bang out a raucous tune I’d heard at the Drones a few nights previous to lift the spirits. If Jeeves was worried about an engagement, then that certainly meant the game was afoot. I might not be, as Aunt Dahlia is wont to remind me, the sharpest tack in the stable, but I know a bad thing when I see it, and this was one. A bad thing, I mean. Jeeves is not easily rattled, especially not after all these years dragging me out of the soup time and again with unceasing diligence (except for those few weeks in July when he abandons me to shrimp and make merry). I couldn’t think why Jeeves should be so concerned, since he’s never had the slightest difficulty in extracting me from an engagement before.

Then, it came to me like a bolt of lightning. I hit all the keys like a horse who’d heard the starter’s pistol, making a ruckus loud enough to startle even Jeeves out of the kitchen. “Sir?”

“Sorry, Jeeves. A thought came to me like that fellow of yours who thought up that clever stuff of his in the bath.”

“You are referring, I think, to Archimedes and the principle of displacement?”

“Yes, got it in one. I am precisely Archimedes in his bathtub at this very moment.”

Jeeves seemed to be on the point of saying something like, ‘indeed, sir,’ but instead he said, “Lunch is served, sir,” and I right-hoed my way into the dining room where I ate a solitary lunch for one. Jeeves doesn’t linger at times like this unless asked because there is always more work to be done (or so it seems; I’m not wholly certain on what needs doing in the flat at any given time, the flat generally being Jeeves’s domain, which he allows me to inhabit, provided I don’t make too much of a mess of it and pay him a goodish pile in the weekly envelope). There is a vast gulf, though, between a Jeeves who doesn’t linger and a Jeeves who practically bolts for the door like a man with a message of victory. I’m sure Archimedes didn’t have to deal with this kind of nonsense when he was trying to tell people about his principle of displacement. I sipped begrudgingly at my soup.

When he came to bring me the next course, I’d become engrossed in my current thriller, and so he nearly managed to drop the sandwich and scarper before I noticed he’d floated in at all. “Jeeves!” I said sharply, arresting him in mid-flight.

“Sir?”

“Stop this flitting about at once,” I said, thumping the table for emphasis. “I won’t have it. You’re avoiding me.” Jeeves opened his mouth to deny it, and instead I said, “It’s the whole bedroom business, isn’t it?”

“The what?” Jeeves said. He sounded almost on edge, which for Jeeves is the equivalent of a stampede of horses across the Arabian plains bearing down on you.

“The, well, the horizontal waltzing? The tête-à-tête between the sheets? The dancing ‘neath the duvet?” By this point, Jeeves was covering a smirk with his hand while attempting to maintain his professional veneer. With a glimmer in my eye, I said, “Do you find something I’m saying amusing, Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, do you follow?”

“Unless I am direly mistaken, sir, you are referring to our prior relations.” He straightened my spoon and knife, not quite meeting my eye.

“Golly, Jeeves, now I’m not sure if I follow you. Spell it out for me, old fruit.”

“The fucking, sir,” he said drily.

“Jeeves!” I yelped, grinning ear to ear. “Where did you learn such language? Not at my knee.”

“No, not at your—” He coughed. “—knee, sir.”

“Gosh.” I patted the chair next to mine, and Jeeves walked over and lingered by it. “Sit, Jeeves.” He didn’t. Well, fair enough. He is his own man. “You’re worried the aged relation will know something’s up.”

Jeeves hesitated before saying, “If you will forgive my saying so, sir—“

“I won’t, but you can say it anyway.”

“—you are not exactly expert in subtlety.”

I pursed my lips. As Jeeves well knows from long experience, I can don the disguise as well as any man. Give me a false moustache and a pair of side whiskers, and I can hide any feeling you like under them. “I’m not about to start singing it from the rooftops,” I said, “much as you know I’d like to.”

“Sir,” he said in that soupy voice of his.

“Oh, don’t start,” I said, because I can’t stand it when Jeeves gets bashful. “You know I think you are the greatest valet in all the land and I’d give you unto half my kingdom, et cetera, et cetera, but really, old thing, it’s as though you haven’t the simplest faith in me. I can make it four days without proposing to a girl. I mean to say, it’s not as though Aunt Agatha will be there laying snares for my feet.”

“While Lady Worplesdon will be absent as you say, I think you underestimate the perils—”

“Of a house whose inmates are all tied up in knots already? I’ve seen any number of engagements go p’fft in my time, but I can’t see Madeline breaking it off with Gussie over Christmas and Angela is practically slavering over old Tuppy,” I said. “I’m not Bingo; I’m not going to go fall in love with the first waitress I bump into. Where a Wooster alights, there he rests.”

“Yes, sir,” he said in the sort of voice that just screams out of a man not believing you, even though you’ve practically pledged your troth. I didn’t know how much more troth-pledging I could do. I mean to say, I couldn’t marry him, but I was prepared to shuffle off this mortal coil with him as he well knew.

“Jeeves, you’re being a pill.”

“Sir.”

I sighed and put down my sandwich, which looked as though it had a long road ahead of it before reaching the Wooster stomach. I have often found that Jeeves, although he has that gigantic fish-fed brain of his, does not have much faith in words, especially not the sort of piffle that I piffle at him when I am trying to persuade him that I mean a thing really and truly as in the case of my keeping a tie he does not like or my loving the pants off him. Every man must have his flaws, and Jeeves’s has always been that he sometimes gets this fly in his ointment and will not believe a word the old Wooster says.

I took Jeeves’s hand, the one that wasn’t occupied holding a tray, and squeezed. “I shan’t get engaged to even one girl over the holidays,” I pronounced, “not even if Aunt Dahlia offered me Anatole in exchange.”

The next day, we toddled down to Brinkley Court in the two-seater. I let Jeeves drive for, truth be told, I had a bit of a morning head, although it was nearly two in the afternoon by the time we set out. It had been a late night on the tiles at the Drones Club, since what with it being so many of the members’ last night in the metrop. until the new year, we were all too ready to partake and heave a bread roll, as they say. When I awoke, startling out of a confused dream, I found that we were at Brinkley and I had been using Jeeves’s shoulder as a pillow.

“We’re here, sir,” Jeeves said, gently shrugging my head off his shoulder. I grumbled my way out of the car and left him to decamp with the suitcases while I tracked down Aunt Dahlia and a cup of tea. I found her lurking in Uncle Tom’s study while eyeing two shifty figures on the back lawn through the French windows.

“I say, old thing, have you got a prowler problem? Seems awfully early in the day,” I said by way of a hello.

Aunt Dahlia being Aunt Dahlia, she hushed me at the very top of her voice. “No, you stray mongrel, I have a blasted Spink-Bottle problem.”

“What, Gussie?”

“Yes, Gussie. Madeline brought that limp noodle with her,” she said, “and while I am the first to appreciate his speechifying, I don’t need to deal with that roving tornado again.”

I tsked.

“What?”

“I said, ‘tsk,’ Aunt Dahlia.”

“Oh, did you, you spoonful of cod liver oil?”

“Gussie is a perfectly harmless blot on the landscape, and I’m sure, provided he doesn’t get tight as an owl, he should be a charming guest, even if he does like orange juice rather more than your average man.”

This time, it was Aunt Dahlia who tsked. “What rot! That’s not what I heard from that hound Sir Watkyn. Spink-Bottle put newts in his bath. And I tell you, he better not try that here!” ~~~~

“Did he bring his newts?”

The old relative lifted up her eyes unto heaven and sighed. “Yes, and I hope for your sake, he loses them all in Madeline’s bedroom cupboard, and she chucks him out before Christmas dinner.” Letting this common misconception in re my feelings toward la Bassett go uncorrected, I patted Aunt Dahlia’s hand. “Ugh, go wash before tea, you fathead.”

I trotted off, and I changed into something less resembling the road I’d ridden in on, and when Jeeves wasn’t looking, even managed to swap out the dour brown socks that he’d chosen for a fruity chartreuse pair. I sauntered back down, feeling bushy tailed and bright eyed, filled with the old compash for my fellow man, even if said fellow man was a newt-loving louse who’d asked me to get engaged to any old girl to distract the dinner conversation of his having gotten pie-eyed one time.

Much to my surprise, I found myself the only singleton in our company. So used am I to the cunning connivances of my Aunt Agatha to dump me into the marital soup that it was wholly shocking to me to find that there was not the slightest possibility of my being ensnared. Had I been standing, I would have done a two-step or even a jig. Wooster: one; Jeeves: nil, I was saying to myself.

This, of course, was the moment that Gussie chose to spill a cup of tea onto la Bassett’s lap, causing her to burst into tears and run from the room. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the parlormaid fled. Then, looking from the place where the fleeing parlormaid had been to the place where the fleeing Bassett had been, Gussie fled. I looked at my cousin Angela across the crumpets with a wild surmise, and Angela looked at me much the same way.

Aunt Dahlia let out a disgusted sigh. “She took the scones with her, blasted girl.”

“Who, Madeline?” Tuppy said.

“No, you maddening half-wit! Alice,” Aunt Dahlia said, and seeing his nonplussed expression, added, “The parlormaid!”, punctuating this with a whacking smack on the table as if she were urging on a horse shying in the middle of a hunt. This in turn caused all the china to rattle, slopping the tea out of my cup. “Really, Bertie!” she snapped, and I chose to hold my tongue, rather than remind her whose unseasonable table-thwacking had led to the current state of affairs with regard to the t. in my c.

I buttered a crumpet, haughtily.

“Don’t sneer, you frivolous tootler,” Aunt Dahlia said.

I was about to answer that I was not sneering whatsoever when Angela interrupted with a question about the honey and whether it was from the vicar’s wife’s hives, giving the aged relation an excellent opportunity to launch into a no doubt well-practiced rant about the vicar’s wife and her beehives, much of which would not be fit to print, filled as it was with rich hunting field expletives.

When our awkward little company disbanded, I wandered out into the grounds for a bit of a stroll. Brinkley Court, although spacious, has a way of bringing one together with the very person you least want to encounter, and so it was that I nearly tripped over Gussie, kneeling over something on the garden path.

“Hello, hello, hello!” I said, steadying myself on a nearby sapling. “What’re you looking at?”

Gussie looked up at me but not, alas, with the light of friendship gleaming in his eyes. “What do you want?” he said.

“Oh, nothing, nothing! Just going for a walk, don’t you know?”

“Just going for a walk?”

“Just going for a walk!”

He tchahed.

“Well, what else would I be doing?”

“Looking,” he said bitterly, “for Madeline.”

“You wrong me, Gussie,” I said, for I’d been getting a fair bit of this stuff from old Stilton Cheesewright of late and I was quite fed up with it. “If I were looking for Madeline, it’d only be to tell her that you didn’t mean to spill that tea on her, but as it happens, I am not looking for Madeline. I am going for a walk.” He stared at me with an expression like a more than ordinarily cross catfish. “Are you looking for Madeline?”

“No,” he said shiftily. “I’m looking for the newt I just saw run across the path.”

“What, did one of your fellows escape?”

“Oh, no, but I thought it might be a _Salamandra salamandra_ — You know they’re not native, but sometimes, they’re bred in captivity, and they escape into the wild, and it would be quite exciting to find one living on its own and study the habitat its chosen.”

“A what?”

“ _Salamandra salamandra_ ,” Gussie said.

“You’re telling me its given name and its surname are the same?” I said, horrified. He blinked at me dumbly. “What can its parents have been thinking?”

Gussie pursed his lips as if about to set off on a long speech about the disposition of the parents of _Salamandra salamandra_ on the day of his birth when I cut him off with, “Why aren’t you looking for Madeline?"

“Because I’m not speaking to her,” he said, brushing dirt off the knees of his trousers. “Or rather she isn’t speaking to me.”

“Why not?” I said plaintively.

“She thinks that I’ve been ogling Alice.”

“Alice? Who’s Alice?”

“You met her at lunch.”

“The parlormaid?”

Gussie looked shifty.

“Gussie!” I said, a note of panic in my voice. As you may well remember, this Madeline thinks, because of a mix-up some years ago, that the Wooster heart beats only for her and that, at any moment she so chooses, I may be ready to step into the spongebag trousers and do her the honor. While I’m never keen to get entangled with this supremely goofy girl, I was determined not to need fishing out of the engagement soup during this trip. I had given my word to Jeeves after all. “You should be looking for her! You have got to— to— to tell her how much you adore her, that she’s the only one for you. You know the sort of thing! I mean, she’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, isn’t she?”

“Then why don’t you marry her?” he said mulishly.

I drew myself up to my full height and glowered down at this fish-faced fathead. Flicking a speck of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace at my wrist, I said, “You love her, you squirt. Go to her.”

My chivalrous ambiance was somewhat compromised by a newt running up my trouser leg at this juncture, resulting in a lot of shouting and wriggling and swatting of the trouser seats and, really, far more proximity of Gussie’s hands to the tenderer parts of the Wooster corpus than I have ever desired. When at last the little fellow (the newt, not Gussie) had been retrieved from the region of my undergarments, Gussie took one look at him, sighed, and chucked him back into the shrubbery. At my furious stare, Gussie said, “It’s only a crested newt. I’ve got five more like him back at the house.”

I opened my mouth to explain to him exactly what I thought of his plethora of dumb chums when I spotted Madeline in the distance, coming straight for us with her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Well, I say, it’s been lovely chatting with you. Hope you straighten things out with Madeline, what?” Patting Gussie on the shoulder, I turned and legged it. I made a bee line for the bedroom I always get at Brinkley, which is a rotten small one, but the bed’s all right. When I got there, Jeeves was inside, brushing a dinner jacket distractedly. I expected him to notice my socks and give me a hard look, but he didn’t. He murmured a good evening, sir.

“Jeeves, I’m wearing awfully jolly socks,” I said, raising up an ankle for his appraisal.

He looked at it, looked at me, and sighed. “Very good, sir.”

“Jeeves?” I crossed the room in a trice (well, it is only about five paces across) and put my hands on his shoulders, stopping him mid-brush. He looked up at me. He looked very stuffed and froggish. “What’s got into you?” I said, shaking him a little.

He detached himself from me and returned the dinner jacket to the cupboard. “I find that I must tender my resignation, sir.”

I sat down on the bed. I stared at the knees. I struggled for breath. “Oh, I say.”

“Sir?” he said, kneeling before me.

“Jeeves, I— I think I am owed —no, sorry, but well, I would very much like— to know why?”

I saw something creep onto Jeeves’s face and, to my eternal surprise, he set his head down on my lap. My hands curled as of their own accord into his hair, slick with brilliantine. “I am engaged to be married,” he muttered into my tweeds.

“Jeeves!” I fairly shouted, springing up and knocking him backward. I goggled at him. He goggled right back. “How did this happen?” I was, I confess, a little bit furious. I mean, no one likes to think he’s been feeding a fellow his bread and salt and, all the time, he’s been nursing a viper in his bosom, especially not when said v. was more than passingly acquainted with my b.

“After you went to tea, sir, and I had unpacked your things, I went downstairs to, as it were, make myself useful. I was sent looking for Miss Travers’s favorite preserves, which the parlormaid Alice had neglected to take up with the other tea things. Instead, I found the parlormaid herself in the pantry, weeping. Being not insensitive to the girl’s feelings, I offered her my handkerchief and a willing ear. She told me about Mr. Fink-Nottle spilling the tea on Miss Bassett as well as some earlier goings on —apparently Mr. Fink-Nottle has been more than ordinarily attentive—” (I groaned inwardly.) “And upon my telling her that I would ask you to have a word with him, the girl kissed me.”

“I don’t see how that obliges you to marry her,” I said. “I mean, you’re welcome to, of course, but I had thought— Well— Perhaps I misunderstood, old thing.”

“No,” he said sharply.

“No?”

“No. You did not misunderstand. Sir.”

“Oh.”

“At the moment of her kissing me, Alice’s mother walked in.”

“Gosh!”

“And she, panicking, told her mother we’d become engaged.”

I sighed. I could see his point. “Well, that is rather damning.”

“Indeed, sir.”

I snorted derisively.

“Sir?”

“I was snorting, Jeeves,” I said, “derisively.”

“I see, sir.”

“Surely, you can get yourself out of this? I mean to say, how many times have you gotten me out of this very self-same mulligatawny?” He looked miserable, staring vaguely over my shoulder. “Oh, Jeeves.” I shimmied off the bed and plonked myself down next to him. “You absolute ass.” And I bent down and kissed him.

Kissing Jeeves, when he is an enthusiastic participant, is rather like trying to keep the cat in the proverbial bag. I mean, the cat keeps escaping and trying to stick its hands down your trousers— Er. Well, you get the gist. He is nothing if not zealous when it comes to the kissing of one Wooster, B. It is therefore saying quite a lot when I say that he lay there like a limp fish, doing little more than cupping my cheek to help in the effort.

“I think,” I said, a little breathily, “this is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.”

“Sir?”

“I mean to say, pull out all the stops. Do you need fish? I’ll see to it that you have fish. I can’t lose you, Jeeves,” I said. “Who will stop beazels entrapping me into matrimony if you’re gone? I’ll be into the spongebag trousers and burdened with fish slices before you can say, ‘Atta boy’.” I shook my head. “No, it’s too grim to think on. We must clear this up at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“I do not accept your resignation.”

“Sir,” he said very softly, and touched my mouth. I licked his thumb, the one touching my mouth, which he likes, and then sucked said th. into my m. Jeeves says that I have an oral fixation, and I can’t say that he’s wrong about that. After about a minute of exercising said fixation on the Jeevesian digit, Jeeves said in a slightly strangled voice, “Shouldn’t you get dressed for dinner, sir?”

“I find myself otherwise occupied at the mo’,” I said, slightly muffled by the aforementioned J. d. “Dressing for dinner will have to wait.”

Jeeves’s head thunked down on the rug. “I was afraid you might say that, sir.”

“Are you expected to serve at dinner, Jeeves?”

“Not tonight.”

“Excellent.” I flopped down on the floor next to him and dragged him down on top of me.

When Jeeves had finally poured me into the soup and fish and I’d toddled down to dinner, I found I’d missed the _hors d’oeuvres_. I told the assembled company I’d fallen asleep after tea and had to be roused by Jeeves, which explained my slightly rumpled appearance. Aunt Dahlia chewed me out over it, but I think she rather enjoys that, so I didn’t feel too badly. It was with a warm and effervescent glow that I started in on the soup course, a lobster bisque of sensational flavorfulness. The assembled company oohed and aahed over this latest triumph of Anatole’s, and we all happily spooned along. Angela was telling Tuppy a story about Uncle Tom and an antiques shop in the Brompton Road, which seemed to involve at least three different large ginger cats and a small Scottie dog, to which Tuppy was listening with rapt attention. Uncle Tom, who hates being laughed at almost as much as he hates playing host, didn’t seem to much like it, but Aunt Dahlia was distracting him with sparkling eyes. I could see that the old flesh and blood was hoping that a winter wedding might be in the cards still.

Seated next to Gussie as I was, it was difficult for me to avoid noticing that he remained decidedly cool toward Madeline. Although I managed to stay out of it during dinner, I found myself sitting next to the cursed girl in the drawing-room afterward. “How’s tricks?” I said, trying for chummy but hitting a mark closer to strained.

She looked morosely at me and sighed one of her great soupy sighs and Oh-Bertied. I waited for her to elaborate, so she did, saying, “Christmas is such a terrible time of year to be melancholy, don’t you think?” I agreed that it was. She sighed again. I waited for her to say on. She didn’t. Conversation between Madeline and myself has always been like that.

“What’s got you down, old thing?”

She pressed her lips together into what I believe is technically known as a moue and sighed some more. She was a great one for sighing. She blinked her enormous limpet eyes and said in a quiet voice, “Gussie and I have fallen out of love,” which was an awful lot of stuff to drop on a man, even one who’d just dined on Anatole’s best. I mean to say, these were the times that tried men’s souls.

“Oh, I say!”

“No, you needn’t pretend to be sad, Bertie. I know how you feel. I only wish—” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief and sniffed.

I patted her hand. “Now, Madeline,” I said, “perhaps the love light is not yet out in Gussie’s eyes.”

She blew her nose like a trumpet. “No, it isn’t, is it? Only he’s turned it on that p— parlormaid,” she said and, to my horror, dissolved into full-on tears. I patted her comfortingly on the back while Gussie glared at me from where he was engaged in a hand of bridge with my aunt.

“I have it on very good authority that that parlormaid is newly engaged,” I said, hastening to add, “and not to Gussie.”

As if on cue, the waterworks stopped. “Engaged?”

“Engaged!”

“Why, Bertie, that’s marvelous!” she yelped, and threw her arms around me. Behind her, I saw Gussie grinding his teeth. I gently pushed her away, reseating her on the settee. It was abundantly clear that she and I did not see eye to eye on the subject of Alice’s engagement, it having cleared her path to the adored object while ensnaring mine, but I tried not to begrudge her this simple happiness.

“I think,” I said, “you should talk to Gussie about this. Tell him that all is forgiven. —It is, isn’t it?”

She considered it. “Yes, I think so.”

“And he is still the lodestar of your life?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good, good.”

She looked at me, a twinkle in her eye. “Bertie, you really are the most generous man who ever lived.”

“Oh, um—”

“No, don’t bother denying it. A lesser man would have seized the opportunity to make me his, but you—!” She sighed. Enough of the sighing, I wanted to say. “You are truly a king among men.”

“Thanks, old fruit,” I said, and making my excuses, steered myself to bed.

When I emerged from a solid nine hours of tired Nature’s sweet restorer the next morning, a fine snow was falling on the grounds, a fire was crackling in the grate, and the sun was shining in the window, illuminating the form of Jeeves offering me my morning cup of the life-giving. I took a sip and felt vim spring back into my limbs. “I’ve said it before, and I will say it again, Jeeves: you stand alone.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He busied himself with tidying while I sipped the morning brew. Eventually, when I felt strong enough for conversation, I said, “Did anything come to you in the night?”

“Sir?”

“Any ideas, I mean? For ending the engagement?” I said hopefully.

“Ah,” he said. I have no doubt that my face fell. “Not yet.”

Much like la Bassett of the night previous, I sighed. I stared at the ceiling. “Have you had enough fish?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“I am sure something will come,” Jeeves said, sounding just the opposite.

“Well, let me enjoy our last hours together before I buy you the fish slice and send you off into this beazel’s arms,” I said, sounding wry and world-weary like some aristocrat of the French Revolution headed for the tumbril. “Come sit.”

He did, although he raised a single eyebrow just a tad as he did it. I would not be subdued, however, and careful of my tea, threw my arms around his neck and buried my head in his shoulder. “Sir?”

“Hush, Jeeves, I’m weeping like the children of Israel before the door of the tabernacle.”

He rubbed my back soothingly, and I maneuvered to sip my tea over his shoulder. After a few minutes, he said, “Are you feeling any better, sir?”

“A bit,” I admitted.

“Is there anything I could do?” he said, eyeing me with a roving eye.

“Really, Jeeves,” I said. “It’s nine in the ack emma. Have you no decency?”

“Apparently not, sir.”

“Hmph. Well, go lock the door.”

Jeeves pursed his lips. “I took the liberty of locking it on my way in.”

“You never cease to amaze,” I said.

“I endeavor to provide satisfaction, sir.”

Although I can’t say that my despondency over the thought of losing Jeeves completely lifted, I did enjoy myself thoroughly. Going to bed (or, as the case may be, floor) with Jeeves is a little like listening to a virtuoso play the same song over and over. It’s a very good song, and it’s very pleasant on the ears (and certain other parts), but after a while, you begin to wonder what else he has in his repertoire. Of course, I’m not about to complain about it when he’s got his hand on my prick, but sometimes, afterward, I wonder if I shouldn’t say something.

“Jeeves, I say,” I tried to begin after about ten minutes of lying boneless half under the duvet with a Jeevesian arm thrown around my waist, but it came out more like, “Gnghhh.” Jeeves raised his head a bit from where it was pressed into the crook of my neck. “Nnnngh,” I tried again. I squinted at him. He gave me his interpretation of a smile, which is a very brief upward quirk of the lips. Then, he kissed my neck. “You’re distracting me,” I managed to choke out.

“No, sir.”

“Yes, sir!” I snapped. “I mean, yes, Jeeves. You are positively— Stop that at once.” He was mouthing kisses down my neck and along my collarbone, and I knew that, allowed to go unchecked, this kissing would result in circumstances certain to prevent any coherent speech from Bertram’s lips.

Jeeves paused, propping himself up on one elbow and gazing upon me with a level look. “Sir?”

“Ugh,” I said and surrendered.

When I once more surfaced from a frowsy sleep, if frowsy is the word I want, the sun was decidedly higher in the sky, Jeeves was pressing my trousers, and my stomach was sticky. “Jeeves,” I murmured, “who is thumping on the door? Tell them to go away.”

“If I might make a suggestion,” he said, crossing toward the door, “may I help you into your dressing gown first?”

I looked down. “Yes, I suppose I should cover my nakedness, what?”

I stole into my dressing gown while Jeeves went for the door, and it was a good thing, too, because Gussie burst in, Jeeves’s protestations trailing in his wake. “Bertie!” he shouted. “I need to borrow your car.”

“Whatever for?” I said, more than a little flustered by this sudden intrusion into the inner sanctum.

“I’m leaving,” he said, bracing for a fight.

I raised an eyebrow. “Take the train.”

“No,” he said resolutely. “No, I’m leaving now.”

“Very well, laddie, but you aren’t taking my car.”

“Why not?” Gussie said, astonished.

“Because,” I said, “I’m not letting you.”

“But, Bertie—”

I held up a hand. “Listen here, old thing: tell me you aren’t running away from Madeline and I’ll let you have it.”

“Madeline!” he said, frothing mad. “Why would I run away from Madeline? What’s Madeline to do with it? I’m leaving because I haven’t a damned thing to keep me here. The engagement is off!”

For a moment, everything went black and swam before me, and I seemed to see Jeeves and Gussie as if through a very thick fog. “It’s off?”

“It’s off!”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Gussie said. “I’m not. She’s a paranoid and maddening pill of a girl, and I’m glad to be rid of her.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” he said. “And what’s more: I hope I never see her again.”

“Golly.”

“You might very well say golly!”

I tipped my head to the side. “You’re really going to leave before Christmas dinner?”

Gussie said, “Ha!”, and my blood ran cold.

“What do you mean, ‘ha’?”

“I mean, ha! There won’t be any Christmas dinner.”

“No Christmas dinner— What, is Anatole ill?”

“No, he’s refusing to cook,” Gussie said, “which I think is perfectly disgusting. I mean, the only reason anyone ever comes to visit this second Colney Hatch is for his food, and if he isn’t dishing it up, I’m leaving.” He stomped over to the bedroom door. “And that’s final!” he said, and slammed it shut.

I looked at Jeeves and raised my eyebrows. He looked at me and twitched one of his, which is much the same thing. “Gosh,” I said.

“Indeed, sir.”

Jeeves had just poured me a fresh cup of oolong when the door burst open again. I jumped and clasped the front of my dressing gown shut, spilling tea on the bedclothes. Aunt Dahlia, for it was Aunt Dahlia who had just entered stage left, barked at me, “Can’t you even feed yourself, you twiddling infant?”

“I can when no one’s barging into my room at the crack of dawn.”

“Oh, shut it, you worm. Have you got Jeeves in here?”

I huffed. Jeeves closed the doors of the cupboard and stepped back, revealing himself. “Yes, madam.”

“Oh, thank God. Jeeves, I’m sunk.”

“Gosh,” I said helpfully, and she shushed me vociferously.

“How may I be of service, madam?” Jeeves said, laying it on a bit thick with his best to-what-do-I-owe-the-pleasure voice.

“It’s Anatole,” she said, collapsing theatrically onto the end of my bed. “He’s refusing to cook.”

“Ah,” Jeeves said. “Yes, we’ve just had Mr. Fink-Nottle in saying as much.”

“Don’t talk to me about Spink-Bottles.”

“No, madam.”

“Why’s Anatole given the _nolle_ _prosequi_ , aged relation?”

“I am getting there, you trout,” Aunt Agatha hissed, which just goes to show you what they say about hissing and sibilants—viz., you can do the one without the other. “He’s in love with one of the maids, and he’s despondent because she just got engaged to some other fellow.” She threw up her hands as if to say, what ho?

“I say, this wasn’t a parlormaid named Alice, was it?” I put in, sipping my tea with a casual nonchalance.

“Oh, hell and damnation, Bertie, you haven’t gotten engaged to her, have you?” she said with a groan. “I knew you were an idiot, but I never realized you were quite as much an idiot as that.”

“No,” I said slyly. “Not I.” And I looked significantly at Jeeves, who maintained a face of such blissful serenity that, had he been any other chap, I could not have believe that he was involved in the business.

“I think,” Jeeves said, “that I have divined a solution to the problem.”

Aunt Dahlia positively beamed. I positively beamed. She and I positively beamed at each other. There was a lot of beaming going about. “I knew I could count on you,” she said. “Try to do it quickly, so he doesn’t lose out on too much time for preparing Christmas dinner.”

“Of course, madam.”

“Thank you, Jeeves!” she toodled, sauntering out of my bedroom with a spring in her step. When she left, Jeeves locked the door behind her. He leaned against it.

“Jeeves, you look pale,” I said. “Are you feeling quite all right?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, I suppose you’ve reason enough to feel a bit peaky.” As I said this, he collapsed in on himself in a most worrying way. Jeeves is rarely one to show the emotions, so this sudden display startled me not a little. It startled me enough that I got out of bed and sidled over, steering the old blighter toward the overstuffed armchair in the corner. He seemed to come back to himself about halfway across the carpet and reasserted himself, shifting his weight onto his own two feet. He sat heavily. “So how are you going to effect a reconciliation between Alice and Anatole?”

He looked blankly at me. “I don’t know.”

I goggled at him. “But— you just— Jeeves! You told Aunt Dahlia you’d got something really ripe.”

“I’m sure I shall,” he said, “in a moment.”

I frowned at him. I lit a pair of gaspers and passed one to him. “Couldn’t you get her to fall in love with Anatole? I don’t know— knock her in the pond and have him fish her out or something?” He took a long drag on the gasper, and I watched the way his cheeks hollowed. “Would some fresh air help? A drive?”

He shook his head. “Something will no doubt come to me in time, sir.”

“But, Jeeves, that’s the only thing we haven’t got. It’s Christmas eve.”

“I am well aware of that, sir.”

I sighed. “Well, look here, I’m only cluttering up the place. Help me into something cheery, and I’ll toddle down and rub elbows with the rest of the company while you ponder the problem.”

“Very good, sir.”

Once I was suitable for company, I stubbed out my cigarette and, kissing Jeeves’s cheek, made myself scarce. It was nearly time for lunch anyway, and I was rather famished, since my usual breakfast had been derailed by the steam train that was the Gussie–Travers duo. It was only when I’d gotten all the way downstairs and very nearly to the dining-room that I realized: there would be no glorious spread from Anatole. Instead, I slouched into the dining-room to discover that we had been provided with a cold collation and, worse yet, that Madeline Bassett was already seated at the table.

Now, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is cold collations shared with Madeline Bassett in the Brinkley Court dining-room. As assiduous readers of my chronicles will remember, this was the very locale where I was once stranded at one of these collations alongside the aforementioned goof directly after I had had receipt of a communiqué from her indicating that she wanted to take me up on an offer of marriage that I had not, in fact, intended to make to her.

Luckily for me, there was a full chorus of Traverses at work in the dining-room, including Uncle Tom who was diverting all and sundry with the latest escapades of his gastric juices. Gussie wasn’t there, so perhaps he’d shot off to town in which case I was really and truly in it. “Well, well, well!” I said, beaming at this motley crew. They did not beam back, but then, that is the sort of reception anyone might get from a group so recently deprived of Anatole’s cooking. I collected my salmon and cheese and fruit salad and the last slice of a kidney pie made by Anatole himself, and I let the company sink back into its state of general dudgeon to the sound of Uncle Tom bemoaning his indigestion.

When I finished my salmon, I discovered that la Bassett was trying to catch my eye over a cheese straw. I flagged down Tuppy and started a conversation about whatever his latest scheme was to find tuppence to rub together, which turned out to be a rather fruity one with three identical horses and two twin jockeys, and I was just warming to the theme when who of all people should wander into the room but Jeeves? Well, ‘wander’ is a strong way of putting it. Rather, he materialized and, a few moments later, gave a polite cough to announce his presence.

“Jeeves!” Aunt Dahlia barked, almost jumping from her chair.

“Jeeves!” I yelped, hope dawning once more.

“Jeeves!” Angela cried, having doubtless been filled in by her mother.

The three of us stared with rapt attention at this paragon. After an expectant pause, he said, “I have a note for Mr. Wooster, sir.”

I deflated. “Well, hand it over, Jeeves.”

“I thought you might prefer to read the missive in private, sir,” he said, gesturing toward the hall.

“Of course, of course,” I said, practically scrambling after him. This had to be good. When we reached the hallway, I said, “Well?”

“Sir?”

“You’ve thought of a plan, haven’t you!”  


“No, sir. Not yet,” Jeeves said, apologetic. “But I do have a note for you.” He produced the aforementioned. It was in a pink envelope. My hairs stood on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine, for I knew now that the doom was upon us.

I plucked the envelope from Jeeves’s hand and, slitting it open with my thumb, pulled out the scented paper within. “Is this what I think it is?” I flicked it open. It was. “Oh, hell.”

It was a note from Madeline Bassett consenting to marry me.

I handed Jeeves the note to read. He read it. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.”

“Jeeves,” I said, “it has been nice knowing you. I think it is time for me to take a long walk off a short pier.” I stuck out my hand.

Jeeves shook it, but added, “I can’t recommend the Brinkley Court lake for such an activity, sir. While I’m sure one could walk off the dock, I’m afraid that, when you regained your footing, you would find your head still above the water.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why the sudden frivolity? Have you— By Jeeves, Jove— I mean, by Jeeve, Joves— Oh, hang it, have you thought of something?”

“Yes, sir. Upon seeing the missive from Miss Bassett, all has become clear to me.”

“Will it work, Jeeves?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!”

“Might I have my hand back, sir?”

“Oh, I say,” I said, and I found that I was indeed still hanging on to the old palm. I let go of the thing with a sorry-old-fruit. “Now, this plan— Do I feature?” It is an unfortunate aspect of most Jeevesian plans to involve dragging me through it.

“Not so much as to require your participation, sir.”

“No?”

“Not in the slightest. Although—”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes?”

“I think it would be best if you refrained from being alone in Miss Bassett’s company until after dinner, sir.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes, I quite understand. I’m not frightfully keen on the idea myself. Very good, Jeeves. After the luncheon party disperses, I shall adjourn to my room and there remain until I don the soup and fish.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said, a look of something alarmingly akin to relief flitting across his face.

I returned to the dining-room, the envelope tucked into my jacket pocket like one of those ticking time bombs. Jeeves, although aggrieved at my ruining the lines of my suit, had to agree that it was impractical for me to go out to receive a letter and not return with it. I resumed my place beside Tuppy and tried to enjoy a boiled egg or two, but my heart wasn’t in it. The company had begun to dwindle, but I saw that la Bassett still had a gimlet eye fixed on me. Eventually, it was just me and Tuppy and Angela and Madeline left. Tuppy and Angela were heading off on a stroll through the snow-strewn grounds together. Now, the Brinkley grounds are as romantic as they are palatial, so I wasn’t about to invite myself to their lovers’ meeting, but I say, it’s a rather rummy thing to ditch an old school chum, a fellow you’ve known since you were so high, with a frightful twerp like Madeline Bassett.

While my back was turned, Tuppy and Angela evaporated like valets in the night, and suddenly I was alone with Madeline between me and the exit to the hall. I squeaked, muttered something about catching up with Tuppy and old Angela, and legged it. After I’d run a marathon or two, I stopped, panting, and propped myself up against an outbuilding. I took stock of where I’d got to: the kitchen garden. I could see the back entrance to Brinkley, and maybe, if I was lucky, somewhere in its deeps, Jeeves was working his magic to get Christmas back on track. I made for the door with some vague idea of sneaking back into the house and ensconcing myself in my bedroom whither engagement-happy females do not dare to tread.

When I knocked, the notorious Alice answered the door. We stared at each other in confusion for a moment before I said, “Hallo, hallo, hallo!”, doing my best at the seasonal cheer.

“Hello, Mr. Wooster,” she said. “Are you looking for Mr. Jeeves, sir?”

“Oh, no, I was just hoping,” I said, “that I might come into the house, as it were, through the back way.”

She seemed not a little flummoxed by this request, but stepped aside to allow me in. Before I could cross the threshold, though, a large broad woman with ruddy cheeks that spoke of good health and maybe a few snootfuls of brandy toddled over and squinted at me. “You’re awful nicely dressed for a tradesman,” she said. Definitely the brandy then.

Alice, clearly a long-sufferer, said, “No, Mama, this is Mrs. Travers’s nephew Mr. Wooster,”

This mother of hers perked up at the sound of my name. “Oh, you’re Mr. Wooster, are you?”

“Er, yes, I am,” I said because of course I was.

And then she slapped me full in the face. Stunned as I was, I heard only a cry of, “Mama!”, and the slam of the door. I pressed a palm to my burning cheek. There could be only one reason for this: Jeeves and one of his bally schemes. Quietly cursing his name, I stumbled back through the gardens toward the front drive. As I was strolling through a particularly leafy glade, cluttered as it was with lush evergreens, I came upon Madeline, that fiend in human shape, sitting on a bench and gazing at the wood around her.

Her eyes lighted upon me, and I knew I was sunk. “Oh, Bertie,” she Oh-Bertied, and my mouth went dry.

“Oh, hello, old thing,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice full of the dreamy goopiness that has gotten her so disliked among the better element. “Won’t you join me?”

“Oh, er—” And, like Napoleon in Russia, stranded without any exit strategy, I did.

“Don’t you think that pine trees are like the spirits of fairy kings, Bertie?” she said. “Whenever I see them, I cannot help thinking of our ancient pagan past.” She sighed.

“Gosh,” I said. As she was waiting for me to speak on, I did. “You know, I can’t say that it had ever occurred to me.”

“Did you get my note, Bertie?”

“Ah. About that note—”

“I know!” she said. “I know it was a rash, mad thing, but I cannot stand by and watch you pine while it is in my power to bring you such joy.”

“Yes, well—”

“I’d like a spring wedding. Doesn’t that sound nice? To be married as the first buds bloom and all the little animals are born.”

“Madeline,” I said firmly. “Madeline, I am supremely sensible of the honor, but—” And here I took a deep breath. “—I cannot betray my friendship to Gussie like this. It would break his heart to see you walk down the center aisle with another man, especially an old school friend like myself.”

Madeline blinked confusedly at me. “But, Bertie, it was Gussie who ended our engagement. He called me a— a bully who made men into sheep and herded them to the slaughter at country houses.”

I reeled. I had not guessed this. This was beyond me. What could I say if Gussie wasn’t standing in the way? It is after all a strict tenet of the code of the Woosters that if a female of the species considers herself betrothed, we do not talk at cross purposes. We do not tell this f. of the s., for example, that she is talking bally rot, that the proposal to which she is making reference was not a proposal at all, and that, moreover, even if it had been, it would have been made several years ago and had, like the milk, gone off by now. Although I strive always to be the _preux chevalier_ , it must be remembered that I had also given my word to Jeeves that I would not get engaged to any roving females while at Brinkley. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and like the cat in the adage, I was letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would.’

“We are very old friends, aren’t we, Madeline?”

“Well, yes,” she said.

I took a deep breath and her hands in mine. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot marry you.”

She stared at me. “What!”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid my heart belongs to another.”

“What!” she squawked again.

“Yes, you see, after you turned me down, for a long time, my heart was barren and empty and unable to love, but eventually, without intending to, purely by accident, I mean, really, sensible to the fact that I had so many times fallen and gotten up again, I found myself indulging unwittingly in the tender pash. With another.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, well. Yes,” I said, and finding that I had nothing else to say, I made a strategic retreat to the house.

I was closing the front door very softly when a booming hunting cry broke out behind me: “Bertie!” I jumped half a foot and yodeled something like, “yeaaaugh!”, as Aunt Dahlia grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and shook me like a hound handling her straying pup. “He’s done it!”

“What?”

“Jeeves! He’s done it.”

“Done what?”

She rolled her eyes up to Heaven. “Straightened out the business with Anatole, of course. He was madly in love with her, but she didn’t realize or something or some such, and then Jeeves gave him the push, and Anatole swept her off her feet, and now the whole business is tied up neat as a present.”

“What!” I said.

“Yes! I just got it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Where’s Jeeves?” I asked, a bit breathless.

“He’s taking down a telegram on the ‘phone in Tom’s study,” she said brusquely. “Christmas dinner is back on!” She gave me the sort of hearty backslap that made me stumble and tottered off, singing a burbling Christmas carol.

Goshing lightly to myself, I pattered over to Uncle Tom’s study where I did indeed find Jeeves hanging up the receiver. “Jeeves!” I bellowed, shutting the door behind me. “Is it true?”

“About Christmas dinner? Yes, sir.”

“Dash the dinner, old fruit. I mean, is the engagement off?”

Jeeves’s mask flickered, and I thought I saw a tinge of relief. “Oh, yes. Apparently, the girl had an understanding with Monsieur Anatole, but in her panic, had not thought through how it might appear to him should she abruptly become affianced to another. After a brief conference between her and myself, she sent Monsieur Anatole a note apprising him of the true situation, and domestic tranquility is once more restored.”

“Jeeves, perhaps you can tell me why, then, Alice’s mother felt the need to lay hands upon me,” I said archly.

Jeeves stared at me, agog. “She did what, sir?”

“She laid a juicy one across the old Wooster countenance.”

“I’m sorry, sir. That was not my intention. I instructed Alice to tell her that our engagement was impossible because you had refused to permit me to leave your service.”

“Well, I suppose these things can’t be helped,” I said, and threw my arms around Jeeves’s neck and kissed him.

He broke away. “Sir! Anyone could walk in.”

“Sorry, Jeeves,” I said, not sorry. “Couldn’t help myself.”

He sighed and fingered my cheek where it was still pink and stinging. “Oh, sir.”

This time, he kissed back.

Sometime later, I found myself sitting down for another brilliant repast courtesy of Anatole. He was in fine form, and I’d rarely had riper, even from him. The _supreme de foie gras au champagne_ simply melted in the mouth. Better yet, as I was pronging the last of it, I overheard Madeline talking to Angela about her and Gussie’s upcoming nuptials, which Angela tactfully did not mention had been off last we’d all heard. Angela, Tuppy, and the recently reunited couple all made eyes at their respective loved ones over a hand of bridge, and I was not sorry when Uncle Tom decided to retire early and I too seized the opportunity to make my escape. It was getting awfully soupy in there. A gentleman must know when to make his escape.

When I got to my room, I found Jeeves idly ironing a pair of trousers that I knew he’d ironed only the night before. He did not look up as I puttered about the room, starting to undress. I got as far as my braces before I said moodily, “Well, lend a hand, old thing.” He carefully stowed the iron and swanned over, every inch the dutiful manservant. He unfastened and unbuttoned and doffed me bit by bit, hands fastidious and unfaltering until he was on his knees at my feet, carefully unclipping one sock garter. He pressed his face to my thigh and let out a slow, stuttering breath. “Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“Long day, what?”

“Yes, sir. Very much so.”

I stroked his hair and then, seizing the opportunity and running with it, ruffled his hair, digging my fingers into his scalp. “Jeeves?” He mmfed. “Jeeves, you’re overdressed. Here I am in socks and not much else, and you’ve still got on your full kit.” When Jeeves did not reply, I hauled him up and dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed, which is what you have to do with a Jeeves who has found himself in a situation for which his meticulous training has not prepared him. Not being a valet myself, I don’t have Jeeves’s level of proficiency in undressing others, but I’ve gotten fairly good at undressing Jeeves, especially when he cooperates. I start from the top down because that’s what he does with me. By the time I was trying to peel off his undershirt, he had recovered and was protesting both my handling of the clothes (“gently, sir, gently!”) and my participation in the matter at all, the donning and doffing generally falling under his purview.

In spite of his interference, we were in short order both down to our undergarments, and Jeeves was attempting to kiss me and take off my socks at the same time, although it was not going well for him. The kissing was winning as kissing is wont to do. “Jeeves,” I said, “I’ll take off mine if you’ll take off yours.” We broke apart, and I stripped down to nothing and darted under the sheets. When I looked up, Jeeves was giving me a rather rummy look as he folded his undershirt and set it on an armchair. “Well, my feet were cold.”

He hmphed and pointedly took as long as he bally well liked in undressing himself, which was less punishing than he wanted it to be, given that I got a real eyeful in the process. Even in wool socks, Jeeves manages to have a bit of the Greek god about him. I stroked myself thoughtfully until Jeeves was quite naked and hovering by the side of the bed. It was a tight fit for two grown men, given that the bed was really only meant for one willowy Wooster. I lay down and reluctantly pulled the covers back, so Jeeves could join me.

He crawled in on top and pressed a demure kiss to my lips. I scoffed, wrapping my fingers into his hair and pulling him in for the sort of kiss he’d remember afterward. Jeeves huffed into my mouth the way he does when I’ve done something out of order, although no amount of propriety can convince him to argue against my nibbling at his lower lip in the privacy of my own bedroom. I’m not patient like he is, but I try to make up for it with enthusiasm, which is why I was already grabbing at his ass and rocking up against him and generally trying to break down the old Jeevesian barriers.

Given how narrowly we’d avoided utmost peril —viz., engagements on all sides— Jeeves’s Viking blood seemed to be up, and I was pleased to find that he was just as eager as I was. I would’ve gotten off like that, rubbing off on him until we came together, but Jeeves is in this as in all things an artist, so he was industriously sliding a hand between my thighs and trying to convince me that I wanted to wait for him to open me up and satisfy himself that he wasn’t going to injure the Wooster corpus before anything really ripe happened.

“Jeeves, come off it,” I grumbled at him, dragging his hand up and onto my cock. He gave it a perfunctory stroke before he produced from goodness knows where a bottle of whatever slick business he uses for this sort of thing. “Ugh, not in this rotten little bed,” I said before hurriedly adding, “And not on the floor either. It’s too cold for that.”

“Sir, please,” he whispered into my ear before sucking gently on my earlobe. I shivered, which he took as encouragement, blast him. “Please let me have you tonight, sir. Please.” I am a man of iron will, but, look, if you had Jeeves trailing wet kisses down your neck and practically begging, you’d let him have his way with you too.

“Well, all right,” I said, trying to maintain my gentlemanly poise in the face of stiff opposition. I parted my legs, and Jeeves slid his hand between them and pressed into me. I mmfed and dropped my head back to the pillow. You see, the real trouble is that, once he’s talked his way into me, I am absolutely powerless before him. I hissed his name, clamping down around his finger for a moment. Jeeves set a hand to my chest, half balance, half reminder to breathe, and so I did, relaxing and letting him work his finger into me.

When he added a second one, I gave a little cry, which given the need for absolute secrecy, isn’t allowed, so Jeeves pressed his free hand over my mouth. He said, “Quiet!”, and I think I might have whimpered before nodding. He pulled his fingers out, releasing my mouth, and started arranging my legs just so.

“Jeeves?”

“Hm?” he said absentmindedly, stroking the inside of my thigh.

“You know, we always do it like this.”

“What?”

“With you—” I gestured. “—on top of me.”

He had stopped mid-movement, a hand under one of my knees, one arm braced against the mattress. “Sir?”

“Well, I mean, if you like it that way, it’s fine with me, but you know how they say that variety is the spice of life and, er, all that?”

Jeeves clammed up and did his best to conjure up the stuffed frog act, which is no mean feat while naked. “I was under the impression that you found our relations agreeable, sir.”

“Oh, no, no, I do! Only— Is this what you like, Jeeves?”

Jeeves stared at me. I stared at Jeeves. Each of us waited for the other to speak, and neither did. Eventually, Jeeves deflated slightly, the frogginess melting away. “Truth be told, no, sir.”

“Jeeves!” I almost shouted, making him wince. “Why didn’t you say?”

“I thought that you—”

“Yes, yes, deferring to the young master’s comfort,” I said. “Ugh.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘Ugh,’ Jeeves, and I meant it to sting.”

“I’m sorry if our lovemaking has been anything other than satisfactory, sir.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” I cupped his cheek and felt him lean into my hand.

“If you must know,” Jeeves said, gazing fixedly at a point somewhere about four feet behind my head, “this particular arrangement makes me feel as though you are simply putting up with my ministrations.”

“What! Jeeves, you know I’m as keen as billy-o.”

“Nevertheless, sir.”

“Oh, Jeeves.” I grabbed the blighter and pulled him down into a haphazard embrace. He grumbled and then went warm and pliant in my arms. “So what do you suggest?”

“Sir?”

“Well, if this isn’t the ticket, what is?” I said. “You know perfectly well that I’m improvising on your theme. Lead on, old thing.” He huffed and rolled us over and nearly off the bed. “Good God, Jeeves!” I stuck out my leg and braced myself against the floor. “I didn’t realize your idea of a good time was dashing the Wooster brains across the carpet.”

“Sorry, sir,” Jeeves said. He was not sorry.

“Scoot over into the middle of the bed. I’m falling off.”

Jeeves scooted, and I scuttled, and eventually, we’d settled ourselves again, myself draped more or less on top of Jeeves. “Sir, this may involve your being cold, but I think you’ll find the sensation fleeting.”

“Jeeves—” He ran a promising hand over my ass. “Say on.”

“Would you please sit up, sir?” I levered myself up, settling myself as best I could over his hips, one knee on either side of him. “A little further down.” I inched back until I could feel Jeeves’s cock press hard and warm against my cheeks.

“What, like this?” I asked, incredulous. Jeeves flushed. “I feel silly.”

Jeeves fondled one of my hips, rubbing at the spot just above the bone. “You don’t look silly.”

“All right, but I’m keeping those chartreuse socks.” Jeeves looked appalled. “Come, Jeeves, we all must sacrifice our pride for the good of the party.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oh, don’t you very-good-sir me!” I smacked his chest. “I will make you look upon those socks with a smile. You will say to yourself, ‘Ah, those socks are the spoils of a great battle,’ and you will remember this night.”

“Then, I will have to ask you not to wear them when guests are present,” he said, “because I’m afraid my reaction upon remembering this evening will be highly inappropriate for mixed company. Lift your hips, sir.”

I did. Jeeves guided himself into me. “Well,” I said, “this is different.”

He laughed at me. “Yes, sir.”

“You feel different like this.” I huffed and shifted a little and then let myself sink down onto him. When I’d taken him all the way in, I hesitated. I was used to Jeeves setting the pace (often in spite of my attempts to urge him on). Jeeves is usually slow and thorough, which is Jeeves through and through, but sometimes, a fellow doesn’t want that.

“Lift your hips, sir,” Jeeves murmured again. I pushed myself up and down in little movements, feeling him move in and out of me, quick shallow thrusts, clenching when I bottomed out on him. “More, sir.”

I tried to lift myself a little further before falling back again, although it was difficult to drag myself away (the fullness, the warmth), and after a minute or two, my thighs were burning. I had to stop, breathing hard. Jeeves pulled his hand away from his mouth and let it fall to the bed. He’d bitten bruises into it.

“Jeeves, do you like this?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I do.”

“It’s hard work, you know.”

Jeeves smiled, his eyes shut. “It’ll get easier with practice, sir.”

“I didn’t realize there’d be a repeat performance.”

“Yes, your tenure has been extended indefinitely. The show is very popular with your adoring audience.”

“Adoring, is it?”

“Sir.”

Jeeves has large, capable hands, and I guided them onto my hips before I started again. We moved together that way, Jeeves biting his lip, me chasing our pleasure. Eventually, I let go one of Jeeves’s hands, and he stroked me off, slow and steady, out of rhythm with the ragged thrusts of my hips. I came first (I usually do) and tried valiantly to ride through it, but in the end, it was Jeeves shallowly moving his hips as I ground down on him until he finished.

My thighs trembling, I pulled myself off and flopped down on top of him. “Jeeves,” I said, “that was marvelous.” He pet my hair and murmured his assent. We stayed there, a happy, tangled pile of limbs, and I listened to the clock on the mantelpiece tick us toward midnight and Christmas day. I could feel myself slipping into the dreamless. I yawned. “Jeeves,” I said.

No answer.

“Jeeves?” Jeeves’s breathing was low and even. He never falls asleep in my bed in strange houses. I shook him gently. “Jeeves!” I hissed. He came awake closely, swimming up to the surface. “Hello, old thing. You’ve got to go to your own bed.”

“I believe I fell asleep.”

“Indeed, Jeeves.”

He smiled at me, slow and languid. “I’m afraid I can’t get up, sir.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well,” he said, “you’re on top of me.”

“Oh!” I scrambled up, winced, and braced myself on the bed poster. “Gosh, what a workout. Better than rowing, I’d bet.”

“Good night, sir,” Jeeves said, and kissed me.

The next morning, a few minutes after I had awoke, Jeeves glided in with a cup of the strengthening. I accepted it gratefully and drank deeply of it while watching Jeeves prepare the morning suit. “How about the plaid tie today?” I said jovially.

“No, sir.”

“Ah, well, can’t blame a man for trying.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Once the Christmas revels are over, I think it’s about time to return to the Wooster GHQ. Let’s spend New Year’s Eve in the old metrop., what?”

“Very good, sir.”

“Just the two of us, I think.”

“An excellent idea if I may say so, sir,” Jeeves intoned, “especially as Lady Worplesdon wired just yesterday agreeing to come down to Brinkley to celebrate the New Year and asking Mrs. Travers to make up an extra bed for the niece of a dear friend of hers.”

“Jeeves!” I gaped. His words filled me with a nameless horror. “As soon as the dinner goose is gone, we must fly this coop.”

“What about the Christmas pudding, sir?”

“Oh, well,” I said, “I suppose I can stay for pudding.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Very good, Jeeves.”


End file.
